


Chance Encounters

by TheObsidianSun12



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Biblical References, Crowley keeps getting into trouble, Gen, Gladiators, Historical References, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Lions, Pirates, The Colosseum, Trench Warfare, Years are in chapter titles, aziraphale has good intentions, various time periods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-08-20 22:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20235682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheObsidianSun12/pseuds/TheObsidianSun12
Summary: A collection of times Crowley and Aziraphale ran into each other throughout their six thousand years on Earth.





	1. Babylon, 552 BCE

As King Darius’ men sealed Daniel away in the known den of a pride of lions, Aziraphale knew what he had to do. Heaven had commissioned him to protect Daniel throughout the night, a miracle that wouldn’t be _too_ hard, given the circumstances. There would be no one to witness it until the morning except for Daniel.

Aziraphale performed a minor miracle to allow himself to pass unseen before slipping inside the den. It was dark, making it nearly impossible to see the prowling forms of the lions around Daniel, who was seated in the middle of the pride.

Daniel’s salt-and-pepper hair was tied back, and his beard was carefully groomed. His tunic, while cheaply made, was immaculate. He had a peaceful smile on his face, and his eyes were closed. He truly did believe that God would protect him.

It certainly was time for a miracle, wasn't it?

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the lions present in the den were immediately pacified, giving Daniel a wide berth. That would certainly last until morning, until the king came around to check on him.

It was a shame, really, that King Darius’ advisors had forced him into proclaiming the king was the only god there was. Daniel had served him well, but he was also a follower of God, and the king had been devastated to sentence him to execution. The king was a good man, and Aziraphale had no doubt that after witnessing the power of God, he would embrace Her.

He turned to leave, his job done, but hesitated. Perhaps it would be better to stay for the whole night, in case something, inevitably, went wrong. He was sure his miracle would do its job, but if Hell decided to intervene and seed discord, the best place for Aziraphale to be was here, in order to thwart them.

His mind settled, Aziraphale sat down on a rock on the outskirts of the cavern, content to stay put until morning. He was half-aware, a few hours later, of a snake slithering up next to him before morphing into the form of Crawley seated on the rock next to him.

“Fancy meeting you here, Aziraphale,” Crawley stated casually, leaning his body back and propping himself up on his elbows.

“Crawley? What are you _doing_ here?” Aziraphale whispered quite loudly, before dropping his voice to avoid attracting Daniel’s attention. He needn’t have worried, however, as Daniel was fast asleep.

“Do I have to have a reason for being around? It’s not like everywhere I go, chaos follows- well, actually, it kind of is, but it’s not always _my_ fault.”

“_Crawley_.”

Crawley sighed. “If you _must_ know, I was in the area tempting a king, then heard about someone being sentenced to death by lions and thought it would be interesting. However, this,” he gestured at the scene of sleeping lions in front of them, “-isn’t exactly what I was thinking of.”

“I was sent to save this man’s life,” Aziraphale stated. “Heaven was quite clear that Daniel was to survive, to spread the glory of God.”

“Do you even hear yourself? ‘Glory of God?’ Really, angel, drop the ‘high and mighty’ act,” Crawley drawled.

Aziraphale was stung by Crawley’s words. “My dear fellow, I’m insulted that you would think such a thing of me. I am not acting ‘high and mighty’, I am just repeating what was said to me by my higher-ups.”

“Gabriel?” Crawley inquired.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale confirmed.

The two of them spent the rest of the night in comfortable silence, and when Aziraphale glanced over next at Crawley, the demon had turned back into a snake and coiled back in on himself, completely and utterly asleep.

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

Crawley drifted back to himself as the sun rose the next morning, the light spilling into the now-open cave and warming his scales. He transformed back into his human-like form and stretched, easing out the soreness in his muscles.

Aziraphale glanced over at him. “You alright, Crawley?”

“I’m fine, just sore.” He hesitated a moment. “Why do _you_ care?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Just because you’re a demon doesn’t mean I’m forbidden to be concerned about you well-being. Angels are supposed to care for all, unless you’ve forgotten that.”

“No. I hadn’t.” Crawley shot a glare at Aziraphale before getting to his feet. A glance around the cavern showed the man who had been trapped inside the night before was gone. “Whatever happened to that man who was in here? David, or whatever his name was.”

“Daniel,” Aziraphale corrected, rising to stand next to Crawley. “King Darius came to get him. Apparently, he is going to repeal that order in favor of all of his people following God.”

“Well, hooray for him.”

Aziraphale smiled. “It _is_ a good thing, isn’t it?”

It seemed Aziraphale still wasn’t familiar with sarcasm, but he was also too happy for Crawley to feel comfortable with bursting his bubble. He could always wait until next time, anyway.

“Where are you headed, anyway?” Crawley asked. “Back to Heaven, I presume?”

“Actually,” Aziraphale began, “Heaven has decided to station me permanently on Earth. My orders, unless otherwise specified, are to spread peace and prosperity across the land.”

“Sounds boring.” Crawley flashed a smirk over his shoulder, picking his way across the floor of the lions’ den.

Aziraphale looked offended. “_Crawley_!” he exclaimed, but upon seeing the mirth sparkling in Crawley’s yellow eyes, his tone turned teasing. “What will _you_ be doing after this, my dear? Fermenting discord wherever you go?”

“Something like that. Or sleeping for a century. If Hell gives me orders, I’ll follow them, but until then, I’ll do as I please, here on Earth. Astonishingly, they’ve decided to station me here permanently as well.”

“I suppose that means we will be seeing a lot more of each other over the coming years,” Aziraphale commented.

“I _suppose_ we will.”

The two of them stepped out into the blazing sunlight. Crawley blinked a few times to get his bearings before turning back to Aziraphale.

“See you around,” Crawley said, snapping off a mock salute.

“I look forward to it.” Aziraphale inclined his head respectfully.

Crawley ventured out into the desert in search of civilization, Aziraphale by his side. When they finally reached the kingdom of Babylon, they parted ways, Crawley forging his way East.

He knew for a fact that this wasn’t the last he would see of Aziraphale. With both of them on Earth, who knew where they’d meet up next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	2. Rome, 187 CE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of times Crowley and Aziraphale ran into each other throughout their six thousand years on Earth.

Crowley realized just how bad of a situation he had gotten himself into as he was pushed out into the Colosseum, the roar of the crowd almost deafening. Perhaps conning that senator out of his riches and leaving a note gloating about it wasn’t the wisest choice.

The sun was bright, almost blinding, overhead, shining down and making his red hair look like flames. Burning sand could be felt through the soles of his shoes. It would take a miracle to get him out of this one.

He had already tried to escape multiple times, even utilizing a couple demonic powers, but it didn’t seem possible to succeed. After his latest attempt, one of the Roman augers had carved what was supposed to be an anti-witchcraft sigil into his shoulder. The process had hurt a great deal, but Crowley had to admit, it succeeded at its intended purpose: preventing Crowley from performing any further demonic miracles.

Looking up, Crowley could see the jeering crowd of faces intently focused on the arena, studying the two combatants prepared to face off. Crowley shifted the wooden sword liable to break at any moment in his hand, glaring what he hoped was intimidatingly at the reigning, albeit unfairly, champion.

The so-called “champion”, or the Roman Emperor Commodus, donned a lion skin over his back and shoulders with a pristine tunic and quality sandals. His sword gleamed bronze, making Crowley’s chances of victory even lower.

Well, _this_ was going to be fun.

The emperor was notorious for only taking on those weaker than himself in a desperate search for glory, even to the extent of taking on amputees and the wounded. As for Commodus’ tactics, even though Crowley was a demon, _he_ thought that was wrong. So, there was no way he was going to get a fair fight. He would just have to try and escape with his life.

Crowley and the emperor began to circle one another warily, each waiting for the other to make the first strike. It took a moment, but the chanting of the crowd seemed to invigorate Commodus, who lunged at Crowley sword-first. Crowley twisted out of the way before sliding back out of range, bringing his glorified stick to a defensive position.

Commodus smiled, a twisted smile, before charging at Crowley once more. Crowley barely managed to parry his strikes, hearing the wood in his blade begin to crack under the strain.

The emperor slashed at the inside of Crowley’s arm, leaving a bloody gash and causing his sword to drop from his hands. He stumbled backward, trying to escape, but Commodus kicked him in the chest and sent him sprawling back into the sand.

The crowd’s cheering intensified, beginning to chant Commodus’ name. Crowley watched the emperor soak in the attention while not letting his sword’s tip waver from Crowley’s chest.

The emperor momentarily turned his back to Crowley to acknowledge the crowd's excitement, and Crowley took that opportunity to strike, picking himself and his sword up off the ground and slashing at Commodus.

He realized it was a trap a few seconds too late.

Commodus’ bronze sword sliced Crowley’s wooden one in half, and then the emperor drove the hilt of his sword into Crowley’s injured shoulder. He fell face-first into the sand, but rolled over onto his back and scrambled backwards. He was stopped when Commodus placed a foot on his chest to anchor him to the ground.

As Crowley searched the cheering crowd desperately for any hint of mercy, his eyes fell on the emperor’s box, where his gaze met that of his (friend? enemy? Crowley wasn’t really sure what they were anymore), fellow Earth-dwelling celestial.

The angel Aziraphale.

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

Aziraphale had to wonder how Crowley always managed to get himself into trouble. Sure, he was a demon, but Aziraphale hadn’t heard of any other demon who continuously got themselves into predicaments such as this.

Originally, he had wondered why Crowley didn’t just miracle himself out of there. The bloody sigil, stark red against his tanned skin, quickly turned his confusion to anger. Aziraphale wouldn’t qualify himself as a vengeful person, but whoever had inflicted this pain upon Crowley deserved to be punished.

Aziraphale had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t interfere, as decreed by those above, but when he locked eyes with a pleading Crowley, that decision went straight out the window.

Closing his eyes to concentrate, Aziraphale halted the flow of time and descended into the arena.

He arrived as Crowley was picking himself up off the ground, brushing the sand from where it stuck to his body. “Aziraphale.”

“Crowley.”

They were silent for a moment.

“I had that under control,” Crowley finally said. He clutched at his arm, red leaking between his fingers.

What Aziraphale wanted to say was, “You call that ‘under control?’” However, he elected for the more diplomatic, “I’m sure you did, my dear. Now, we should get out of here. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep time stagnant.”

Crowley smiled, a tired smile. “Let’s go, then.”

They had fled the Colosseum before time resumed and picked their way to the top of a hill to sit in the shade of a tree. Aziraphale sat back and rested his weight on his hands, while Crowley splayed his legs and rubbed at his shoulder, his hand coming away bloodied.

“May I?” Aziraphale asked, extending a hand towards Crowley. Crowley shrugged.

Taking that as permission, Aziraphale healed Crowley’s wounds and slightly eased the weariness setting in to the demon’s limbs.

“You must stop getting into trouble, my dear,” Aziraphale stated. “I won’t always be around to rescue you.”

Crowley shot him a lopsided smirk. “I don’t go looking for trouble, angel. It just happens to find me.”

“You _cause_ trouble. You’re a demon.”

“I can’t argue with you there, but while _this_ may have been my fault, there are other times that haven’t been.”

“Such as…?” Aziraphale trailed off.

Crowley stared into the middle distance for a moment before speaking. “I don’t know. But I’m sure there have been a few.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Crowley noticed, then sighed and flopped back into the grass. “Fine. _Maybe_ one or two.”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale agreed. “You seem to be the cause of all your problems, my dear.”

Crowley didn’t bother to look at Aziraphale. “I’m starting to agree with you.”

They remained seated on the hill in comfortable silence for the rest of the day as the city of Rome bustled below. As the sun kissed the horizon, Crowley inclined his head respectfully before descending the left face of the hill. Aziraphale did the same before descending the right.

Both of them knew it was only a matter of time before they met again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated.


	3. Spain, 1056 CE and Germany, 1517 CE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: these two moments are paired together because they both address similar events in history.

“You _broke_ Christianity?” Crowley leaned forward across the table, mostly sounding shocked, but Aziraphale could trace a hint of pride in his voice.

“Well, not _exactly_… it’s more… I don't know.” Aziraphale picked at his food as he searched for the words to defend himself, and honestly, he wasn’t sure there were any.

It was true that the Great Schism was somewhat Aziraphale’s fault, but he truly believed this was for the best. After all, the tensions between the newly-created Eastern Orthodox and Catholic branches of Christianity were more likely to spark a war than be settled peacefully.

“It had to break before it could be fixed?” Crowley offered.

“Yes, precisely!” Aziraphale was relieved. “This was for the better of everyone. Now that the tensions are gone, they can return their attention to faith and prayer.”

Crowley made a non-committal noise.

“Oh, what is it?” Aziraphale snapped.

“Look, I realize that _you_ think this is all for the better, but… don’t you think it's a bit of an issue that Christianity is no longer uniform? Humans are _more _than likely to misinterpret the Bible for their own uses.”

“I’m aware of humans’ unpredictability,” Aziraphale began, “but more variety means more followers. That’s Gabriel’s main desire. More prayers.”

“He doesn’t care about misinterpretation?”

“He’s more concerned with the results than how they are achieved.”

Crowley sighed. “You realize that this probably isn’t the end? We’ll have hundreds of branches in less than one thousand years.”

“I’m quite sure this is the end. Their differences have been settled. There should be no need for further strife.”

“Because humans are _so_ keen to avoid strife.” Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Have a little faith, my dear.”

“Jesus had faith, and look where that got him. All he said was ‘be kind to each other’, and he ended up _dead_.”

“Please, Crowley. If you can’t lighten up, we may as well drop the subject.”

“Fine,” Crowley muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.

They were silent for a moment before Aziraphale spoke. “I do hope we can still enjoy the rest of our meal together.”

“Angel, that’s not going to be a problem. The fact that you managed to single-handedly split apart a religious institution is enough to put me in a good mood for _weeks_.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolded.

“What?” Crowley smiled innocently, the corner of his mouth slightly quirked. “Are you feeling parched? Should I order another round?”

Aziraphale’s features softened. “I wouldn’t say no to that.”

Crowley raised his hand and motioned at the waiter to get another round, before raising his almost empty glass in a toast. “To royally screwing ourselves over.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but raised his glass all the same. “Indeed.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

_Four Hundred Sixty-One Years Later…_

As Martin Luther nailed his ninety-five issues with Catholicism to the wooden door of the church, Crowley mused that Aziraphale was probably better off leaving the affairs of the church to themselves. Two schisms in one millennium was _more_ than enough.

Aziraphale had yet to notice him, the angel hovering at the edge of the square while Crowley lurked in the shadows not too far away. He was visibly distraught, and Crowley couldn’t blame him. In general, the angels took any issue with the church personally.

“Quite the turn of events, isn’t it?” Crowley sauntered up from the alley behind him as Aziraphale turned to look. “Christianity, at its breaking point again. It’s not even been five hundred years.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale drew himself up to his full height. “I assume you had something to do with this?”

Crowley leaned casually against a wall. “Don’t blame _me_, angel. I didn’t do anything.”

Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously. "Well, _I_ certainly didn’t tell him to rebel."

“I’m not implying you did. He’s human, after all. And humans are completely unpredictable.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose they are, aren’t they, my dear? But still, I wonder if my prodding-”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupted. “You’re not responsible for this. It was bound to happen sooner or later, with all that Hell’s doing.”

“What?” A hint of outrage colored Aziraphale's voice.

“Yep. Hell’s _all_ over corrupting your precious clergy,” Crowley drawled. “Indulgences, the amount of power the Catholic Church was accumulating, that was all their people.”

“How _dare_ they?!”

“Calm down, you’re making a scene,” Crowley muttered, digging his nails into Aziraphale's arm.

“I will _not_-”

Crowley slapped his hand over Aziraphale’s mouth and dragged him into the alley behind him. The audience in the square remained fixated on the spectacle in front of the church, so, thankfully, their disappearance remained unnoticed.

“It may be better off this way. More churches, more diversity, more prayers. That’s what you said Heaven was after in the long run, anyway.”

Aziraphale muttered under his breath, “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

Crowley smiled. “Now that we have that over with, how about lunch? There’s a place not too far from I’ve heard is _excellent_.”

Aziraphale visibly brightened. “I _could_ go for something to eat right now. But _you’re_ buying.”

Sighing, Crowley nodded. “Have it your way. But you owe me.”

“No. No no no. This is you repaying me for saving your life in Rome,” Aziraphale corrected. “Now, lead the way.”

Crowley began to pick his way through the alley, Aziraphale following him, as they forged their way towards lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	4. In the Middle of the Atlantic Ocean, 1719 CE

Balancing precariously on the ship’s bow, Crowley peered out across the sea, feeling the salty breeze tickle his cheeks and whip tendrils of red hair around his face. It was nice to get away from mainland Europe for a while, even though he hadn’t seen land for the past few weeks.

He’d recently joined the crew of a relatively unknown ship searching to gain some glory, and riches, while they were at it. He didn’t have any use for riches, but it’d been a while since he’d last done something spontaneous, just for the hell of it, so he had talked to the first mate, who had agreed to take him on.

Only one condition: stay on the captain’s good side, because he had no qualms about feeding him to the sharks.

Speaking of which…

“CROWLEY!”

He could hear his captain shouting at him from across the ship, and he sounded angry. He inched down the rounded wooden post before jumping off, landing gracefully on the deck in front of him.

“Yes, Captain?” he said, with overexaggerated respect. Thankfully, his captain didn’t catch on.

“Yer supposed to be in the Crow’s Nest, not wastin’ yer time! Get back to work!” the captain bellowed.

“Of course, sir.” Crowley’s voice was dripping with sarcasm, and he bowed mockingly. Then, before the captain could comment, he clambered up the ratlines to the Crow’s Nest, where his view may have been better, but it didn’t mean there was anything to see.

His long red hair kept blowing in his face (no thanks to the wind) so he ran his fingers through it to smooth it before tying it back with a strip of cloth. He now understood why it was a tendency of those around him to keep it shorter or tie it back before coming above-deck at all.

Now that his hair wasn’t in the way, it was possible to see the vast blue ocean stretching out before their ship, fading as it touched the horizon. Puffy white clouds dotted the sky’s robin’s-egg color. It was beautiful, sure. Serene, too. But honestly, in Crowley’s opinion, kind of boring. It had been like this ever since he had left.

Boring wasn’t _bad_, of course. In the middle of the ocean, _interesting _was liable to get you killed, whether it be storm or sea monster (not that sea monsters were _real_, of course). So, bored as he was, it was probably for the better.

It took Crowley a moment to realize that something was interrupting the blue expanse, merely a blip on an otherwise empty landscape. He fished a telescope out and opened it, peering across the sea at the disturbance.

He could see a ship in the distance, the Union Jack waving proudly from its mast. It was a large ship, and… probably merchant class, though he couldn’t be sure. The likelihood was that it was transporting goods from the New World to Great Britain.

“Captain!” Crowley called and, after a moment with no response, realized there was no way the captain could hear him from this distance.

Sliding down the ropes, Crowley again attempted to get the captain’s attention. “Captain! There’s a ship in the distance off the starboard bow!”

That caught the captain’s interest. “Where?”

Crowley gestured vaguely to the right side of the ship, and the captain followed his movement, pulling a spyglass out of his coat and peering through it. He then shoved it back in his pocket and bellowed at the crew to get to work.

“Raise the sails! Man the cannons! Prepare yerself for a fight!”

Crewmates scuttled to accommodate his demands, and Crowley found himself climbing back to the Crow’s nest to get out of the thick of it. Their ship had changed direction and was now headed towards the other vessel.

“Hoist the Jolly Roger!” the captain ordered.

The skull-and-crossbones flag was passed off from crewmate to crewmate, until it ended up in Crowley’s hands. He climbed the last few feet up the mast before tying the flag off, so it billowed in the wind, a call-sign and a warning.

The _Blood Tide_ sailed full-tilt towards the unassuming British vessel.

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

Aziraphale had been minding his own business below deck when the boat shook like it had hit something, which was unusual in the middle of the ocean. There shouldn’t have been any landmasses in sight for the next few days.

He was on his way back to London after a man by the name of Daniel Defoe had asked him to edit his book, which Aziraphale had gladly agreed to do. He was sure _Robinson Crusoe_ would prove to be a literary masterpiece, but in order to provide the best feedback, he had to know what life on a seafaring vessel was truly like. To be honest, he wasn’t enjoying it, but it was for _literature_.

The boat shook again, and he barely managed to prevent his inkwell from spilling across his book. What the heaven was going on?

Taking care to secure his ink and his book safely, Aziraphale ventured above-deck, hoping to find the source of the disturbances. The boat shook several more times on his way there, nearly knocking him back down the stairwell, but upon reaching the deck, he couldn’t help but feel a little surprised, and more than a little annoyed.

Pirates? _Really?_

Aziraphale sighed. Of course he would be inconvenienced by an act of Hell, on his way back to London after being away for months. That was just typical.

As the pirate ship got closer, more and more cannon balls struck home against his ship, causing it to rock violently back and forth. A few of the crew were tossed overboard, and Aziraphale rushed to the railing to help them, throwing some ropes tied to the wooden posts overboard and miracle-ing them so that the men would be able to climb back up and escape the unforgiving waves.

The enemy ship was beside them now, its crew lining up on the railing. The British soldiers fired at the pirates, dropping a few of them, but most were able to throw weighted hooks over to the British vessel and begin to board.

A few of the British soldiers continued to shoot at the trespassers while others drew their swords and charged at the pirates, who were now drawing swords of their own. One lone soldier grabbed Aziraphale’s arm and hustled him below-decks, away from the fighting. Aziraphale wasn’t exactly military trained, and he would probably be more of a hindrance than an aid.

“Stay here,” the soldier ordered after escorting Aziraphale back to his quarters. “We can handle this.”

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure about that, but he let the soldier go, keeping his gaze on the door in case anyone, enemy or friend, tried to break in.

Who ended up entering could fall into either category: Crowley.

It took Aziraphale a moment to recognize him, if he was being honest. Crowley’s long red hair was tied back, out of his face, and he was wearing what could only be described as a black blouse. His feet were bare, and he donned black trousers and a red sash around his waist.

“Crowley?”

Crowley’s eyes widened, and his sword-point wavered for a moment. “A- Aziraphale? What are you doing here?”

“A better question to ask would be what you are doing, Crowley?”

Crowley sheathed his sword and rubbed awkwardly at his neck. “Oh, you know. Bored, decided to mix things up a bit. Pirates seemed like a logical choice.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Of course it did.”

“Hey. You never explained why you’re here.”

“Well, I was doing some research for a book I’m editing for a friend, and-”

“You just so happened to encounter pirates?” Crowley offered.

“I just so happened to encounter _you_,” Aziraphale corrected.

They were both silent for a moment. Aziraphale reflected that, should Crowley elect to turn him over to the pirate captain, it was very likely he would be discorporated. He would like to avoid that outcome (and the accompanying paperwork) if at all possible. Crowley spoke just before he was about to bring up the topic.

“So, um, angel, you want to, uh, miracle ourselves out of here? Maybe go to St. James Park? Get something to eat?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I would enjoy that very much.”

Crowley smiled. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Aziraphale shot Crowley a small smile, watching for a moment as the demon faded away. Then, he followed him, grabbing his book and inkwell before miracle-ing himself back to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated.


	5. France, 1915 CE

The sound of mortar shells exploding and machine gun fire buffeted Crowley on all sides as soldiers fell to the ground, dead, around him. He’d been in this trench for a few days now, facing off against the Austro-Hungarians and their allies without a break, and both his clothes and skin were stained with mud. He miracled away his chances of trench foot every few hours, but his comrades were not so lucky.

Why did Hell have to put him here? It wasn’t like he was _doing_ anything. No land had been gained or lost, and the constant rain hadn’t improved matters any. The Central Powers were in the same situation, anyway.

Crowley sighed and peeked his head over the edge of the trench and fired off a few shots from his rifle before ducking back into cover. There was really no wiggle room with this. A commission was a commission. He was on thin enough ice with Hell as it was.

An explosion rocked the ground, and Crowley heard several men scream out in agony. Any other demon would have taken joy in their pain, but he was just saddened. Young lives cut too short.

God- Satan- _Anyway_, he really hated this place.

He watched as one of the machine-gunners collapsed to the ground, clutching their shoulder and writhing in pain. Crowley threw his rifle down and took control of the mounted gun, peppering the no-man’s land between them and the enemy soldiers in a hail of bullets.

Behind him, he was faintly aware of a medic crouching beside the injured man, whispering soft assurances that were inaudible above the warfare around them. The gun he was firing mowed down one soldier, then another, and he couldn’t find it in him to derive any glee from their suffering.

War was a waste.

Machine gun fire from the other side forced Crowley to drop back into the trench, the bullets harmlessly skittering above. The medic, who looked vaguely familiar, stood and turned to make his way further along the trench before panicked cries broke out among the soldiers.

The only distinguishable word was “Grenade!”

Sure enough, a number of the explosives had been tossed into the trench, clattering down to fall between the soldiers. Crowley scrambled backwards, away from the bombs, trying to save his own skin.

The medic who had been treating the downed soldier behind Crowley froze, whether in fear Crowley didn’t know, as the grenades finally came to a stop on the ground.

Shit. He was really going to do this, wasn’t he?

Crowley lunged at the medic and tackled him away from the grenades just as they detonated. He and the man landed hard in the mud, sinking into the mushy almost-liquid. Crowley had managed to block the medic from injury at the expense of his own well-being. His back was sending lances of pain directly through his body, the grenade’s explosions having more than scorched his flesh.

He flopped over onto his back, letting the cold mud soothe his pain. As the medic struggled up, dazed, his eyes met Crowley’s.

Well, Crowley had to admit, of all the people he expected to see in the trenches, Aziraphale most certainly wasn’t one of them.

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

The fact that Crowley was _here_, now, and had saved his life yet again was enough to give Aziraphale pause. After a moment, he managed to choke out, “Crowley? What are you doing here?”

“Same as you, I suppose.” Crowley’s voice was taught with pain. “Helping the Allies win the war.”

Aziraphale hushed his voice. “Does… _your_ side know you’re here?”

“Of course. They sent me.”

Aziraphale felt a flash of panic. If Hell had sent Crowley, but Heaven had sent Aziraphale, and they were on the same side… what, exactly, was Hell planning?

“Why?”

“Heaven if I know. It’s not like they tell me anything.” Crowley struggled to a sitting position, wincing as he did so. Aziraphale could practically _see_ the pain radiating off of him.

“I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.” Aziraphale straightened his uniform before kneeling next to Crowley, keeping his voice hushed.

“Don’t say that,” Crowley hissed, his eyes snapping up to meet Aziraphale’s. “My people will have my head, and you won’t fare much better.”

“Fine.” It seemed, almost one hundred fifty years since the last time Crowley had saved his life, Crowley still harbored an intense fear of Hell’s retribution. “At least take a break from the front. You can’t last forever without one.”

Shooting Aziraphale a challenging look, Crowley attempted to stand, only to fall back down into the mud. Reluctantly, Crowley muttered, “Fine.”

Again, Crowley rose from the ground unsteadily, bracing his arms against the trench wall to support himself. Aziraphale wrapped an arm around Crowley’s waist and led him, limping, back to the infirmary section of the trench network.

Gently, Aziraphale laid Crowley down on one of the beds, the demon protesting the entire time. “I said I’d go to the infirmary, not rest there! Other people need this more than I do.”

“My dear, you said you would rest, and you will. You were blown up. You deserve at least a small reprieve.”

Crowley muttered something unintelligible and laid down on his stomach on a cot, allowing Aziraphale to cut his uniform off of him. Throughout the whole treatment, Aziraphale assumed he was sulking, remaining silent except for a hiss of breath escaping through his teeth when Aziraphale wasn’t quite gentle enough with his damaged skin. He would have just miracled him healed, but Heaven would ask him to justify healing the enemy, and the humans around them would be very confused. At least their witch trial days were behind them.

“I hate this,” Crowley finally said when Aziraphale pulled away to begin putting away the supplies. “These men – practically _kids_ – are sent to die in a war for reasons they probably don’t even understand. At least in Hell, you’re only punished for what _you_ did wrong. These boys are dying because of the inability of other, older humans to pull their heads out of their asses for five seconds!” Crowley gestured to emphasize his last statement, but winced as it caused his burned skin to rub against the clean bandages.

Aziraphale returned to Crowley’s side and placed a hand on his forehead as if checking for temperature, but he was really alleviating Crowley’s more prominent pain. It was a minor enough miracle to pass unnoticed. He really had to go back out into the trenches, but Crowley was in no fit state to be left alone. Who knew what he’d do (or say).

“I agree with you. Their sacrifice would be unnecessary if humanity could calmly talk to one another. But there is nothing we can do now except try to save those fighting in this war.”

Crowley sighed. “And how many is that?”

A grim look settled on Aziraphale's face. “Not nearly enough. But _everyone_ we can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated.


	6. Soho, 1993 CE

When Aziraphale entered his bookshop Saturday morning, he honestly didn’t expect to see Crowley curled on one of the couches, soaking wet and shivering. He, of course, was concerned and decided to approach Crowley's trembling form.

Aziraphale gently brushed a stray lock of red hair away from Crowley’s forehead. “My dear Crowley,” Aziraphale muttered, electing to open his bookshop a little later than normal, “Whatever am I to do with you?”

He sat down at Crowley’s feet and gently rubbed at the demon’s back, noting that Crowley’s shivering hadn’t lessened any.

Crowley let out a rather undignified yelp at the contact, and he flinched away from the touch. Aziraphale retracted his hand out of respect, but Crowley at least seemed to be aware and awake now.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley greeted, his voice raspy. “Shouldn’t your bookstore be open by now?”

“Yes, but…” Aziraphale began, but Crowley cut him off.

“Don’t lose business because of me. I’ll be heading out anywa-” Crowley broke off into a coughing fit, and when it finally tapered off, the demon remained bent forward, clutching at his ribs.

“My dear, are you alright? What happened to you?” Aziraphale moved to help Crowley, but Crowley recoiled, isolating himself on the far side of the couch.

“I’m fine,” Crowley hissed through his teeth. “Don’t worry about me.”

Aziraphale knew from experience that this was a fight he was unlikely to win, but picked it anyway. “Clearly, Crowley, you are not ‘fine’, and your assurances will not make me worry any less. Now, will you tell me what has happened?”

Crowley’s pained smile was definitely not genuine. “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I cannot help you if you don’t tell me.”

Crowley sighed and opened his mouth to speak, but began to cough again, for much too long. Aziraphale patiently waited it out, but he was growing more concerned by the minute. There was blood on Crowley’s hand when the coughing finally ceased.

“It’s better if you stay out of this,” he finally managed between gasps for air. “Safer.”

“Will you at least tell me why you are soaked?” Aziraphale most certainly did not plead.

Reluctantly, Crowley stated, “Let’s just say Hell and I aren’t on good terms right now.”

“What did you do?” Aziraphale’s concern was still there, but there was now a tinge of exasperation.

“How was I supposed to know that Hell already had a plan in motion?” Crowley snapped. “It’s not that hard to send a fucking memo! ‘Hey Crowley, just so you know, we have an assassination plot in the works that’s going to go into effect tomorrow. Why don’t you avoid Norway for the next few days so you don’t screw up the whole plan?’”

“What did you do?” Aziraphale repeated.

“Decided to lower the density of the bullets in all the guns in the area as a joke,” Crowley muttered. “The assassin shot him, sure, but the bullets didn’t do enough damage for it to be fatal. Apparently, Hell needed that guy dead, and when they found out it was my fault…” Crowley shrugged. “Anyway, they weren’t happy with me.”

“You did a good thing, my dear. You saved that man’s life.”

“I’m a demon! I’m not supposed to do the ‘good thing’!” Crowley argued. He flung his arms out to emphasize his point and froze for a moment, then collapsed in on himself, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale inquired. He placed a hand on the side of Crowley’s face, and the demon whimpered, leaning slightly into the touch.

Aziraphale pressed his aura against Crowley’s, and felt a sharp flash of pain. He pulled away and wrapped his arms around Crowley.

“Let’s get you changed, my dear,” he murmured. “Dry clothes will do you good.”

And, perhaps, allow Aziraphale to see what Hell had done to Crowley.

Aziraphale fetched a spare set of Crowley’s clothes from his flat above his bookshop. He had never been sure why Crowley had insisted upon having them here, but that was the least of his problems at the moment.

When he arrived back downstairs, Aziraphale found Crowley standing next to the couch, albeit unsteadily. He took the proffered clothes with thanks before slipping away to the back room to change. Aziraphale hesitated for a split second, pondering whether or not what he was about to do would be considered, by Heaven’s standards, “ethical” before following him.

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

Crowley stared at the clothes he had set on the table of the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop, trying to convince himself that it was “okay.”

Sure, he _wanted_ to dry off, but who knew what would happen if Hell found out he was here, consorting with an _angel_. They were pissed enough at him as it was. Dragging Aziraphale into this was a mistake.

He hadn’t intended to, of course. Once Hell had done what they deemed necessary, they had dropped him in the middle of Soho without even change for a cab. It was _truly_ evil of them.

Crowley had debated whether he should walk to his own flat, but he honestly didn’t want to. After Hell had snatched him from his home, claiming they needed repayment for Crowley’s mistake, he wasn’t really keen to go back, especially in his state. What he would say, however, if anyone asked, was that Aziraphale’s place was just that much more convenient.

He would admit that he broke in, but he didn’t want to wake Aziraphale. And maybe, he was half-hoping he would be in and out before Aziraphale had even awoken. He had laid his weary body on the couch and been asleep instantly.

But Aziraphale had found him, and Aziraphale was curious. Curious about what had happened. And Crowley _really_ didn’t want to tell him.

There was nothing anyone could do, anymore.

Sighing, Crowley dragged his mind to the present. He needed to get dressed, evade the rest of Aziraphale’s questions, and then he could leave.

Dropping his leather jacket to the floor, Crowley was once again thankful that it wasn’t very absorbent. His shirt, formerly hidden by his jacket, was stained dark with blood and sticking to his torso. His trousers were in a similar state, but they were nowhere near as severe.

He stripped himself of those, too, leaving Crowley solely in his underwear. He took the opportunity to examine his battered body, running a hand through his still-dripping hair.

His back and chest were littered with cuts and lashes, some of which, hours later, were still sluggishly oozing blood. He sustained substantial bruising all over his body, the most noticeable being the purpling bruise on his ribs, courtesy of Hastur’s iron-toed boots. His ribs, some of which were probably broken, ached. His throat and lungs burned slightly, and even thinking of water made him sick.

He figured almost being drowned several times _consecutively_ would do that to a person.

Crowley bent over to pick his new trousers up off the table, only to stop and whirl around as the door to the back room burst open.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley, but I-” Aziraphale’s voice faded off as he caught a glimpse of Crowley’s mutilated torso despite Crowley’s half-hearted attempts to hide it. “Oh, my dear, what has happened to you?”

“Hell,” Crowley replied simply.

Aziraphale traced the outline of one of the more severe gashes on Crowley’s back, his fingers smooth against Crowley’s skin. “You must let me heal you.”

“No,” Crowley stated firmly, pulling away. “An angel helping a demon? How would you explain that to the higher-ups?”

“To Hell with Heaven,” Aziraphale announced.

Crowley couldn’t argue with that.

He felt Aziraphale’s aura wash over him, easing his pain and closing his wounds. Nothing could be done about the water, though, so when Aziraphale finally pulled away, Crowley’s hair was still soaked.

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley stated after a moment, the pain plaguing him for days banished.

“You’re welcome, my dear.” Aziraphale pulled away from Crowley and recomposed himself. “Now, if you wish to clear our debt, I would request your aid in running my bookstore today. I have heard there is a prospective buyer coming, and you have no qualms about driving them away.”

Crowley smirked. “Fine. I’ll help you, since you helped me. The Arrangement demands it.”

Aziraphale smiled, and he left Crowley to change as he made his way to the front of the store to start setting up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated.


End file.
